


Hexadyne Meetings

by Saesama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some forces are too powerful to ignore, and some fates are too intertwined to ever separate. Four people, six meetings, a thousand lifetimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother's Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to this place, so, if something is screwy, please, tell me.

The groom's brother gives you an disbelieving look when you get out of your truck and swing Dave on your back in a cradle board. You stare right the fuck back and pretty much dare him to challenge you as you pull back the tarp over your gear. You didn't bring your good tables - the bride's father already sternly forbid you from any 'crap-hop remisses' - so it's you and your Dell and your first soundboard because if you're going to drive all the way to Dallas for a wedding for a bunch of pretentious Texan fucks, you're fucking-A going to make sure their twangy sad cowboy songs sound their best.

The groom's brother sighs and starts to help you carry your gear into the reception hall. "The kid better not fuck up the reception," he warns.

"Dave won't be a problem," you reply, biting back more caustic words. Fuck this guy. You hate working weddings, but no club is gonna put a teenage nub behind the tables. Dave burbles somewhere behind you.

"Everyone thinks their brat is 'no problem'," he half-sneers. "Pro-tip, kid; all brats are a problem." This yuppie fuck probably thinks he's giving sage advice or something, and he can't be more than a few years older than you. He treats your gear with respect, though, and that's reason enough to not launch a shuriken at the back of his head. He holds the door open for you with his foot and looks you up and down over the top of the soundboard in his arms. "How old are you? Twenty?"

"Nineteen," you admit grudgingly, and fuck this guy and his judgmental stare with a _rake_. 

"Little young for a kid, ain't you?"

"He's my brother. Parents died in a car crash last fall." And it's so not true but it's totally worth it for the horrified, ashamed look on his face and the fact that he barely says a word to you for the rest of the night.

o o o

The reception is better than you expected. These guys are less sad cowboy than they are Busch and Lynyrd Skynyrd, and even the sappy love songs are trending towards the pop-rock end of the country scale. Thank god. You aren't one to music shame, but Dave sure as fuck is, and if there's not enough heavy bass or percussion in the music, he gets cranky.

You've got a pretty wide variety of music on your drive already, and you've got a hacked mobile connection, so anything you don't have, you can get relatively quickly. The guests seem pleased, and if you occasionally slip in a slightly more... rhythmic version of a song, even Daddy can't get mad at you. You see the groom's brother talking to the family and pointing at you at one point, and the groom himself comes over to shake your hand and tell you how admirable it is that you're caring for your little brother and that if the little tyke needs something, you just let us know, okay? 

No one says anything to the bride, and you wonder if the groom avoids it because she hates kids, or if it's because she really, really wants kids and he doesn't want to give her encouragement.

You're pretty good at keeping the music varied enough, but after the dollar dance, you hit a run of requests that are all slow and sappy and yeah, the main couple are still on the dance floor mooning at each other, but fuck's sake. And sure enough, Dave starts fussing in his cradle board (which may or may yes be hanging from one of the lighting stands behind your rig) 

With a sigh, you set a few more songs in the playlist and retrieve your ward. "C'mon, kid," you mutter, bouncing him in your arms. "Just one more bad love song to get through, then it's Shania Twain. You'll love that shit." Dave wrinkles up his nose and fusses some more, and you know he's not hungry, you fed him right before the reception. Maybe he's wet? Or maybe he hates Hank Williams that much?

"Hey, DJ! Got a request for ya!"

Well, fuck. Dave's still too squirmy to put back in his cradle board, and you're not putting him on the floor, he's too little and this place is too dimly lit. Resigned to being the daddy-DJ for a bit, you prop Dave against your shoulder and turn towards the half-drunk guy at the other end and-

"I'll take him, dear."

You look over. An elderly woman is leaning against this end of your rig, smiling at you. Definitely a granny, but she's not dowdy and she's looking at you with amused sympathy, not judgement or pity. Loathe as you are to hand Dave over to anyone, you could use an extra hand. So with a mildly fatalistic shrug, you shift Dave in your arms. She comes around the end of the table to take him, cooing gently, and you go to deal with the guy at the other end.

"He has lovely eyes," she says when you turn back. The place is dim enough that Dave can stand having his glasses off, and she brushes his hair back. He gurgles and gives her a wide baby smile, waving his arms. "I don't believe I've ever seen such a shade, hoo!"

"Albinism does that," you say, allowing her to coo over your brother and you take the opportunity to get a closer look at her. Maybe in her late sixties, clearly a tough little bird, and she holds Dave with all the practiced ease and care of a long-time mommy. She's obviously not from around here, not with that accent, and you raise a brow over your shades. "What's a nice, northern gal like you doing in a place like this?" you drawl.

She laughs, a particular hooting laugh that you immediately decide you like. "Trixie-" Bride's mom, if you're remembering right - "Is an old friend. Besides, what better place to scope out my next husband, than a wedding?"

"Sorry lady," you say. "Dave's a little young for you." She laughs again, and, yeah, okay, you like her. 

"No worries," she says, tickling Dave under the chin. "I'll have my own in a few months."

"And you didn't invite me to the baby shower? I'm hurt. You carry the extra weight well, though."

"I bet you say that to all the pregnant octogenarians," she says, giggling like a girl, and holy shit, she's in her eighties? "But you of all people should know, babies can arrive in the strangest ways."

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You've told no one, not a single living soul, where you found Dave. You gape at the woman, openly astounded and for once not caring that you show it. She smile's back, and there's a fire behind her eyes. She knows. She _knows_. And somehow, she's the same way.

You want to sit down with her and question her. Did she have dreams, too? When did they start? Does she catch the occasional glimpse of the Why looming in the future? What does she know? What does she suspect? Does she know anyone else who found a kid in a meteor?

"Yeah, strange ways," you concede, shutting your fly-trap mouth. Because in the end, you don't know this woman. It's enough to know that there's someone else out there in your position, that you're not alone in this. You hold out your arms and she passes Dave back to you, but not before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Good luck with your kid," you say lamely.

"They'll need the luck, not us" she says simply, and holy fuck, do you ever want to grill her for everything she knows. She steps out from behind the table, then pauses and looks back at you, a wicked smile curving her lips. "Can an old lady make a request?" 

"Sure," you shrug. "You'll have to find an old lady to make it, though,"

She laughs again, and for a moment, you can see the girl she must have been once, and you regret never having known her. "'Short Dick Man', by 20 Fingers. Let's liven this party up a little." You actually laugh out loud and turn back to your laptop.


	2. Grandfather's Gift

You stare at the screen for a long time.

You know Jade needs this. Or, rather, she _will_ need this, but you need to get it now, because you might not ( _won't_ ) be able to later. Most of it, you are certain you could create on your own, but your hands are not as steady as they once were, and computer programming is just a wee bit beyond the scope of your current abilities ( _and you have too little time left to learn_ )

In your lap, Jade squeaks happily, waving around your discarded bow-tie. Across the room lies your latest - and by far most depressing - taxidermy project, still dismantled. Sighing at the sight of black hair spilling over the edge of the table, you look back at your screen.

And you begin to type.

o o o

To: puppetmaestro@plushrump.com  
From: j.harley@aol.com  
Subject: I have a work opportunity for you

Greetings and Salutations!

I was recommended to you by an acquaintance at Cornell; do you, perchance, happen to remember a fellow by the name of William Sanford? I do believe you helped him out of quite a pickle! He remembers you quite fondly, I must say, and he has suggested I contact you on the subject of my current predicament.

I am in need of a robot, built to very specific dimensions, and with very specific programming and abilities. I have been informed that what I am asking for is quite nearly impossible! But by golly, I believe it can be done, and I have been informed that you may be just the man capable of making this impossibility a reality.

If you are interested, could you perchance provide me with a slightly more secure email to contact you by? There are details here I do not wish to be leaked.

Thank you for your time,  
J. Harley

PS: Er, if you're not the man Mr. Sanford remembers, please delete this and I'm sorry for the mix-up.

To: j.harley@aol.com  
From: puppetmaestro@plushrumps.com  
Subject: re: I have a work opportunity for you

1) Who the hell are you?

2) How did you connect Sanford to this email address?

3) What are you paying?

4) You cannot possibly think AOL is secure.

To:puppetmaestro@plushrumps.com  
From: j.harley@aol.com  
Subject: re: re: I have a work opportunity for you

Ah! Capitol! I have indeed reached the correct man, then! Well, Mr. Strider, I shall endeavor to answer your questions.

1\. http://www.uca.edu/staff/harley.htm I do believe this page will give you all necessary information on myself, to include my credentials and qualifications. To answer your question in a more relevant manner, I am merely an old explorer, attempting to help my granddaughter through a difficult time in her life.

2\. Haha, the internet yields many treasures to the daring and determined, Mr. Strider! While I must say, I was a bit, er, shocked at what my findings yielded, I am still quite determined to employ you. Please, do not misconstrue my words as judgmental; I was merely surprised, given Mr. Sanford's description of you. 

3\. Right to the meat of the matter; I like that in a man. Well, Mr. Strider, all production costs of the robot, shall be paid for whether you succeed or fail. You will be paid a modest wage for the time spent on it, to account for time that could have been spent on your other sources of income. Should the endeavor bear fruit, you will be paid a substantial bonus that we can negotiate between us. As you will be my employee for the duration of the project, any medical costs accrued by yourself or members of your household during said duration will be covered. Full dental and optical coverage will be provided. Any other costs can be discussed as they come up.

4\. I would rather not give out my secure email address over this client. I have made enemies in my time, Mr. Strider. I'm sure you understand.

-J Harley

To: j.harley@aol.com  
From: strider@iro.de  
Subject: re: fwd: re: re: I have a job opportunity for you.

1) The hat you're wearing in the profile pic is the goofiest thing I've ever seen. Also, it says your kid is a year old; I don't make sex bots for kids, FYI.

2) Fuck you.

3) Holy shit.

4) I showed you mine; you show me yours.

To: strider@iro.co.de  
From: hass@sec.uca.edu  
Subject: re: fwd: re: fw

1\. I assure you, that is NOT my intention. And my hat is classy, thank you.

2 & 3\. Acceptable reactions.

4\. Do I take this to mean you are interested?

-J Harley

To: hass@sec.uca.edu  
From: strider@iro.co.de  
Subject: re:, etc

Yeah, I'm interested.

o o o

Months pass.

You pull a few strings within your company to get Mr. Strider on the bankroll and under company insurance. He takes advantage of it as soon as the insurance goes through, and the case files show that he went and got vaccinations for an infant. Fair. You certainly could not begrudge a man for caring for his child.

You send him measurements and a few unfortunately amateur drawings of what you need. You could, you suppose, have taken a picture, but despite Mr. Strider's colorful online presence, you doubt he'd much care for pictures of the carefully preserved corpse of a thirteen year old girl. 

He makes a few crude comments about sex bots again. You ignore him.

Harder to deal with is the coding and specs for the sensor array. Those, eventually, you give up on trying to reproduce by hand. You're not sure what he thinks of the pictures of the temple walls and the engraved lines of code, nor what he makes of the apparatus etched into the walls of Jade's globular room. You're not even sure if the code on the wall is valid or comprehensible. 

His only comments are to circle certain areas of the images and ask for better shots of those spots. You oblige.

Invoices start coming in after the second month. Most of the orders are straight-forward - aluminum plating, huge spools of copper wire, circuit boards, pneumatic pistons, steel cable. Some worry you a bit - rare crystals, rarer metals, a lead case, a dubiously legal set of miniature rocket engines. You sign off on all of them.

One comes in the form of an email request - a hunk of uranium the size of your fist. Your contact is concerned about the possibility of a dirty bomb, but has it delivered anyway.

The next request is for two Playboy bunnies and three Chippendale dancers. You ignore that, too.

You don't ignore the request for an apple pie, and have a bakery in Houston deliver nineteen of them to his residence. He behaves after that, and has the cheek to send you a picture of his - son? brother? - sitting in an empty pie tin and wearing another as a hat. In the background are several uneaten pies, and the file's name is 'the pie king is pleased'. 

There are a few weeks of silence that have you curious but not overly concerned. His checks are still being cashed, and you suppose that he is simply deep into his work.

It's late at night when the satellite phone rings. Jolting awake, you groan and climb out of your bed, wincing as your knees pop and nearly drop you to the floor.

You barely get out your name when you hear " _Harley, what the fuck did I make?_ " 

That wakes you up. The voice on the other end of the line is male and Texan and very angry. "Strider," you say. "How did you get this number?"

"The internet, many treasures, what the fuck ever. What did I build, where is the control signal coming from, and _what the fuck is this thing doing, Harley_?"

You sigh. "I assume you activated the robot, then?" He grunts. "Well, I cannot see it from where I am. What _is_ it doing?"

He laughs harshly. "Not much; it's still mostly a skeleton and wires, and only a few of the motors are hooked up. But I'm watching the control signals go back and forth, and it looks like it's trying to roll around on its back and slobber on its own toes."

You sigh again and sit heavily at your desk. "Strider," you say quietly, and he goes silent. "Have you ever had a dream so real, it hurt to wake up? Have you ever been certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that what you dreamed really happened?" He doesn't answer. You don't expect him to. "Every dream my granddaughter has is like that. I have reason to believe that, for her, dreams _are_ reality, a different reality. And I also have reason to believe that it will become important for her to be able to interact with _this_ reality while she dreams."

He's silent for along time. "So, this thing is responding to her unconscious mind."

"Something very much like that, yes."

"Fuck."

You're both quiet again, and if you listen, you can hear the faint sounds of machinery from the other end of the line. Becquerel comes in and lays his head on your knee. "Where did the code and schematic come from?" Strider asks finally.

You laugh ruefully. "I cannot give you a good answer to that," you admit.

"Cannot or will not?"

"Cannot. Trust me, chap; if I could, I would."

"Hm." He lets out an explosive sigh. "I'll still finish it. But damn it, Harley, this thing spooks me, and I don't spook easy. I've got the subconscious projection of an infant rolling around on my front room floor."

"I understand. Please believe me; she needs this."

"You're sure about that?"

"I bloody well am."

"Fine. ETA four months. And then I never want to see it again." He hangs up. You scratch Becquerel's ears.

o o o

A month later, the phone rings again, late afternoon. You don't even get a chance to greet whoever is on the other end before you hear Strider. "Wake her up."

You think about scolding him for his rudeness, but his words and tone register and you immediately forgive him. He sounds spooked again. No, more than that; he sounds positively haunted, and far older than he should. "Strider, what the dickens is going on?"

"Just... just wake her up, Harley, and give her a hug or something." He hangs up.

Unnerved, you place the phone on the receiver and walk into Jade's room. She's still, and clearly not having a nightmare, and you wonder what Strider could have possibly seen.

She's crying.

Your heart hiccups, and you scoop the tiny girl up in your arms. She whines and opens her eyes, and for the briefest of moments, she looks devastated, exactly as haunted as Strider sounded and her face is streaked with tears. Then she rubs her eyes and blinks sleepily up at you, and you hug her close and wonder.

o o o

He said four months. It takes him five.

You feel you owe it to the man to meet him face to face at least once. Jade is at home, under Becquerel's watchful eye, and you're standing in the hallway of a Houston apartment complex, unaccountably nervous. You've gotten the impression that Strider rather wishes he'd never answered your first missive, and you wonder how to apologize. But the job is finished, and you have the check for his bonus in hand.

You knock.

It takes a moment before he answers, tall and lean and insolent. His swaggering demeanor changes the moment he recognizes you, going tense and on edge. "Harley."

"Afternoon, Mr. Strider," you reply. He lefts out a huff through his nose and steps back to allow you to enter the apartment.

She's beautiful.

All else aside, Strider has a gift. The metallic creation before you is lovingly detailed, and pieced together with immaculate precision. You circle her in awe, noting each joint, each rivet, the careful sculpting of the metal plating into hair and clothing. "She's perfect," you murmur.

"She's creepy," Strider counters flatly. He's leaning against the closed door, his arms folded and his body still tense.

You turn to him. "I do apologize for your discomfort with this project, Mr. Strider, and I am prepared to-"

He holds up a hand. "Don't," he interrupts. "Just get her out of here. Please."

You nod and, not for the last time, wonder what the metal creation has shown him. He shows you the switch that places her in an active scanning mode, and hands you a remote control that is labeled 'KILL IT WITH FIRE'. You hand him the check and he stills for a moment. "If it is not enough-" you begin.

"It's plenty," he says, and is there a bit of shock in his voice? His poker face is too good to be sure.

You hold out your hand. He stares blankly at you, then returns the hand shake. "Thank you, Strider," you say firmly.

His lips twitch. "Don't mention it. Ever."

A rueful smile on your own face, you captchalog your granddaughter's metallic doppelganger and walk out of the door.


	3. Mother's Knowledge

You pick your way across the shattered ground with care, your phone in one hand and a bassinet in the other. You're thrown off by the surprisingly heavy weight of the child (your daughter) in the bassinet, but the three cosmopolitans you had at lunch allow you to sway with the weight instead of fighting it and the girl (Rose) falls asleep easily.

You pause at the rim of the impact crater and sweep your not-quite-a-phone in a wide arc. Same readings as in New York. As in Houston. You look at the baby (your baby)

So, if the readings are the same, where are the other two children? Who was waiting to pick them up out of their landing spots? Are there more incoming? The landing pattern suggests a westerly sweep, and you've got agents in Russia and China listening for any more impacts and the men at Berkley are always manning the underwater microphones. If another one happens, you'll hear about it.

You look around. The area is cordoned off by yellow tickertape and the local police are keeping people away. You set the bassinet on a steady rock and slide down the crater wall.

The readings go crazy. Fascinated, you stare at the read-out, calculating and extrapolating and skipping from conclusion to theory to hypothesis and back around with every new spike. Heavy metals and residual temporal anomalies, spectrum red-shift and Compton scattering, and when you lose your balance briefly and flail your arms to maintain it, you catch a glimpse of something in the sky like a lace doily and you fling your phone up, squinting at the screen desperately and-

"Why, hullo there!"

You whip around. A man is leaning over the bassinet (your daughter) with another child in his arms. He crouches down, cooing gently, and you see a tiny hand reach up to wrap around his finger. "Are you lost, too?" he asks gently.

"She is _not_!" you snap, marching up the side of the crater. Or, at least, trying to. The ground is unsteady scree under your feet and while you don't go down, it's a close thing at points. The man - the quite old man, now that you're closer, and familiar - yelps ungracefully and lands on his butt. The girl in his arms giggles and he clambers to his feet. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" you demand.

He squints at you. "You're Joseph Lalonde's girl, aren't you?" he asks. You blink. How-? "Thought so," he says. "We've met at a distance, though you were just a wee thing and I was still a professor."

"Mr. Harley," you say, finally placing his face. "That explains why the police let you through the barrier." Couldn't exactly deny the owner, could they? 

Yes, yes they could, and you make a note to dress them down later.

His eyes drop to the (your) girl, and soften. "She's lovely," he says. 

"Thank you," you say. You don't feel proud. Really. You have no reason to feel proud of her; it's not like you had a hand in her creation, you just found her. But there's a little frisson of warmth in your chest anyway. You clear your throat. "Mr. Harley," you say. "I will be performing some very delicate spectrographic work here in the next few hours, so, if you don't mind?"

"Right, right," he says, winking at you. "Too delicate for a codger like me, not too delicate for your pretty little flower. I understand, dearest. Jade and I shall hup-to and leave you to your work. Say 'bye-bye', Jade."

Jade turns in his arms to look at you shyly from under his chin, and she opens and shuts her fist in a tiny wave. From near your feet comes a pleased noise, and you look down to see Rose return the gesture. Jade looks down and smiles widely, showing off the beginnings of slightly crooked incisors, and Rose giggles again. It's the first noise of happiness you've heard her make.

You stare at Jade. You're pretty sure you know where she came from.

Harley's looking at you, and though he's smiling, there's a warning in his eyes. Your research hovers on the edge of a chasm, and you want desperately to push over the brink and see where free-fall takes you.

"We won't live to see it, you know," he says softly. You start, badly; you've suspected as much, but to hear someone else confirm it, to hear someone else admit even vaguely to sharing your ordeal... He hugs Jade a little closer. "So enjoy the time you have with her." Before you can get past your shock to respond, he's gone, disappearing behind half of a wall as if he was never there.

You kneel down beside Rose. She looks back at you with solemn violet eyes and for a moment, you want to hug her close.

You don't. You have work to do.


	4. Grandmother's Hand

You know, really, that you shouldn't be walking through the big city after dark. But the weather is so nice after the long, rainy Seattle winter, and New York City is so pretty at night, and your hotel isn't all that far from the concert venue where you were doing stand-up for a charity service.

So, when you're mugged, your reaction isn't fear, but irritation with yourself.

Three hooligans, one with a hand on your arm and knife against your side. Two others stand in front of you, hands out, demanding your purse and anything in your wallet. The two before you aren't visibly armed, and the one holding you is-

Shaking. Scared.

"Hup!" You grab the wrist holding the knife against you and pull, socking your hip against theirs in a neat throw. The assailant flips cleanly in the air and crashes to the ground, and oh, your hips are going to be _angry_ in the morning. You're too old for these shenanigans, even if your Ladygrit levels are still quite high and you're still able to dead-lift more than some men half your age.

The two unarmed punks, apparently too terrified by the idea of an old lady willing to fight back, take off running. You look at the one on the ground - and pause.

It's a girl, no older than twelve, with rough-cut blond hair and lovely pink eyes welling up with pained tears. Her face is too thin, and her hair is dirty, and you wonder how long it's been since she had somewhere safe to sleep.

Everyone; your son, your husband, your friends; they all accuse you of taking on hopeless cases just to prove that there's no such thing. You see no reason to stop now.

"On your feet, missy," you tell the girl, hauling her up by the back of her t-shirt. She squeaks, still trying to catch her breath, but she's mostly steady on her own. "You, miss," you continue, taking the girl's hand. "Are going to escort an old lady to dinner." You place her hand on the crook of your elbow and cover it with your own, squeezing just hard enough to let her know that the hip-check wasn't a fluke and that, yes, your Ladygrit _is_ that high.

You steer here to a small restaurant and say something to the host about your granddaughter having taken a nasty spill. He eyes you oddly but doesn't comment. Oh, New York.

The girl sits and stares at the table. You hold out the menu in an obvious offering. "Anything but the Filet Mignon, please." you say.

"I don't want your stupid food," she spits. 

You raise a brow. "That's too bad," you say. "The food here is quite good, and I really don't think you have anywhere better to be right now."

She squirms, but doesn't run. "My friends are gonna come back and get me and you'll be sorry." she mutters.

"Only for my checkbook," you say, making a show of perusing your own menu. "Buying dinner for that many may get pricy."

Her breath hitches, and you realize she's starting to cry in earnest now. "You'll be sorry!" she repeats.

"If I see them," you say, making a show of looking around. "But I don't see them anywhere."

She breaks down into quiet, snuffling tears. "They were my friends," she manages.

"They're scared children," you counter. "What do you want to eat, dear?"

She sniffs, grabbing her napkin to scrub at her face. "A burger," she says quietly. "And broccoli with cheese. And a chocolate milkshake."

You flag down a waiter and order while she cries into her napkin for a while longer. The waiter brings the shake and she grabs it with both hands, taking a long sip and cursing when she gives herself brain-freeze. You watch her with your hands folded under your chin, until she stops fussing and glares at you, instead. "What?"

"What's your name?"

"Not telling."

"Where are you from?"

"The dirt. I grew in an old lot like a weed."

"Do you have a family?"

"Nope."

"Do you have a home?"

"The world and every cardboard box in it."

Her answers continue in such a vein until the food arrives. The sight of a thick burger with all of the fixings, sided with a mound of cheesy florets, seems to break her obstinance and she begins to actually answer your questions. She's a foundling. She thinks she's eleven. She ran away from an orphanage when she was six and has been living on the streets since. She's whip-crack smart and sharp-tongued and can read better than any guttersnipe has reason to.

She's scared. She's tired of being a street rat. She wants to be an astronaut.

When you're both done eating, she doesn't protest you taking her back to your hotel. You make a phone call while she's in the shower and she agrees to wear one of your touristy t-shirts while you arrange for services to wash her clothes.

She sleeps with her arms around your neck like a much smaller child.

She still doesn't tell you her name.

In the morning you wake up and order crepes from room service and she wakes up to the smell. She eats heartily and wonders out loud who first screwed up pancakes and made them so thin. You wait until she's mostly filled her belly before looking at her over your glasses. "I made a call, last night," you tell her. "To a friend of my brother. He'd like to speak to you today."

She makes a face. "Another orphanage?" she asks. "Can't I stay with you?"

You shake your head. "I'm too old for a child like you," you admit. "And I'm just a comedian. This man is a scientist who's on the trust board for a girl's school."

She perks up. "A scientist?"

Joseph Lalonde is tall and dark and lank and there's a slide rule on his desk that the girl doesn't stop looking at. He introduces himself as if to another adult and she shyly introduces herself as Pumpkin.

Before you leave she hugs you and whispers what sounds like 'thank you' into your stomach. You smile and touch her hair and tell her that if she really wants to thank you, she can work hard at getting into space. She laughs and nods and goes off with Joseph and the school director and you have to hurry to catch your flight back to Washington.

You tell your son that you've once more proven that there's no such thing as hopeless. He calls you a sentimental old bat and hugs you tightly.


	5. Sibling's Waltz

You're four the first time the witch hits you.

You cry and whine and your sister comes and wraps her arms around you and pets your hair and you snuffle into her dress.

o o o

You're eleven when your brother leaves.

He's too rash, too bold, too in love with the world to stay in the huge, stifling house and live the tiny, stifling life She wants for you both. He climbs onto Harley's back and steers the great dog around like he's a horse and he waves for you to join him. You can't.

He promises to come back for you.

He doesn't.

o o o

You're twenty six when you see your sister again.

She's grown into a fine, upstanding woman and is engaged to a fine, upstanding gentleman. Your dinner together is stilted at the best. The witch still hates her and still rants that you were the better of the two of you and the will still says you'll inherit all. You tell her about the ruins you've found and the grants you've gotten.

You ask her if she's happy. She says she will be, some day.

You ask her if she hates you, for never coming back. She laughs and doesn't answer.

When you get up to leave, you find your shoe laces tied to the table leg and the table cloth tied to your belt. The host has a fit and she slips out the door in the commotion and leaves you with the bill. 

You figure it's the least you owe her.

o o o

You're forty when the witch dies.

She leaves you with a token inheritance. All of the rest goes to your brother. He misses the reading of the will and shows up late to the funeral, wearing his traveling clothes and smelling like a freshly overturned compost pile.

You hug him anyway.

Later, you find a dead tarantula in your purse. You subscribe him to Better Homes and Gardens in retaliation.

o o o

You're fifty three when your sister saves your life.

You've been lying in the bottom of a ravine for days now, slowly dying from a compound fracture in your leg and a nasty infection. You were supposed to check into the base camp over a week ago, and you hope that the rescue party finds your body. Your sister refused your offer of half of the company, but you hope she'll take it over willingly after you die. Or maybe she'll give it to her son. Something.

You think she's a hallucination when you see her. She screams in outrage and looks like she wants to shake you soundly. Instead she blows hard on the whistle around her neck and bursts into tears.

She'd joined the rescue team on day four, you discover later. You discover now that she's as strong as she ever was, and her son is even stronger and between the two of them, they get you out of the ravine.

o o o

You're sixty when he whispers his secret to you.

A baby, he says over a bottle of fine malt. A baby that will come from the sky and destroy the world and save the universe. He's been to another world, one of golden towers and dreaming clouds, and he's seen the room where she will sleep, a princess of a moon a thousand thousand miles away.

You whisper back that you believe him, because you’ve dreamed of a young man who will clear the skies.

He laughs and sobs into your shoulder and asks if you can ever forgive him. You laugh and sob back into his chest and tell him you forgave him when he mailed you the stuffed Burmese python to celebrate the opening of your shop. 

o o o

You’re seventy two at your company’s one hundredth anniversary, and she air-drops a cake –made from a Duncan Hines mix- on top of your Seattle factory. The cake is fifteen feet tall and iced in blue.

It’s delicious. You mail her a box of chocolate-dipped Guatemalan hissing cockroaches.

o o o

You’re eighty five when you get the letter. His baby has arrived, a tiny girl with dark hair and big, lovely green eyes and congratulations, you’re a great-aunt.

You smile and fold the letter. In the distance, you can hear the whistling approach of something.

o o o

You’re eighty five when you stand over your sister’s grave.


	6. Hacker's Lament

**Log date: May, 1998**

You call that hacking?  
I could be out snacking  
while you're cracking  
your head against this code  
like a choad  
a fuckin' nematoad  
Too brain dead to realize  
I despise  
The wayFYTFUIFUFIO{POLP-

ERRCODE 367509HK-098  
MESSAGE LOST  
REBOOTING  
...  
...  
...  
okay little boy  
cuz u gotta be a little bouy  
wit that super5ority complex  
who th fuck raps like that  
what do you think youre doing?  
go back to hacking AOL accounts  
and leave the big boys alFYTTTUTERT:LK{OK-

ERRCODE 367509HK-098  
MESSAGE LOST  
REBOOTING  
...  
...  
...

Oh Lord, will you witness  
this distress  
God please bless  
this mess  
And forgive this retard  
he tries so hard  
never learned to spell  
can't even tell  
thinks he's one of the big boys  
playing with daddy's toys  
on the system making so much noise  
Dissing the flow  
Like you know  
How I-GHETRDFLKJHPOIU*))(*(++++++++++-

ERRCODE 367509HK-098  
MESSAGE LOST  
REBOOTING  
...  
...  
...  
getting real sick of ur shit little boy  
there aint room here for you  
take ur LAME rhymes and go home  
lola's protecxting this system  
and you aint got a fuckin chance  
i got ur number, mr somewhere in south texas  
yuou keep buggin me  
im gonna keep narrowing it down  
til i find you  
and you wont like what happens when i do  
you been beat little boy  
by a girl  
enjhoy your domination by the superior half of the speces

ERRCODE 875433HG-006  
SIGNAL LOST

o o o

**Log date: July 1999**

Been thinking about you  
Kinda hard not to  
You did defeat  
the Master of the Beat  
without breaking a sweat  
But I bet  
I can make you regret  
interrupting my set  
I wasn't going to take this job  
This slob job for a fucked up knob  
But I checked out the lay  
and -lola- is in the pay  
of the man I'm about to digitally slay  
shouldn't have told me your handle  
can't even hold a candle  
against the deluge of my flow  
and now you know  
your boss is broken  
and you left the door open  
Best leave the Big Apple  
cause you can't grapple  
with the Master of the Beat  
now  
accept your defeat

ERRCODE XX01  
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE

o o o

**Log date: April, 2001**

sys log  
syscheck: sat  
weapcheck: sat  
weapfire: none  
hullcheck: sat  
alert: low  
alert: low  
alert: low  
sensread: heat  
alert: med  
loc: 01-223-2  
bearing: -156.446  
sensread: movement  
loc 01-223-2  
bearing: -156.723  
alert: high  
ident: neg  
hullcheck: damaged  
weapfire: 3  
hullcheck: compromised  
weapfire: 4  
weapcheck: ERR  
weapcheck: ERR  
weapcheck: ERR  
loc: 01-223-2  
bearing: ERR  
syscheck: COMPROMISED  
syscheck: ERR ERR ERR ERR ETFYJTFYTGUY

couldbnt help but notice  
the sysadminname of this thing is the BEAT MASTER  
long shot  
but hey  
might be worth it  
score is 2 to 1 asshole  
find me again  
i bdare u  
<3  
lola  
ps nice robot  
if it makes u feel better  
im gonna have a scar to remember u by

/sys log

o o o

**Log date: April 2004**

HYDRATECH GOES DOWN

-New York City  
Experimental tech company HYDRATECH was digitally attacked this morning by an unknown party. The entire digital infrastructure of the Albany-based company was hacked early this morning, leaving every computer connected to the extensive network with '2-2 Try me again, (expletive removed) -MB' blinking on the screen. No one has stepped forward to claim the attack, though it is thought to be the work of a rival technological corporation. The intriguing message seems to reference some kind of rivalry, though between who, it is unclear.

The company has released an announcement that the network should be back up by early next month, and that no job losses should occur, despite the several million dollar profit loss predicted by experts outside of HYDRATECH.

HYDRATECH Head of Digital Security, Dr. R. Lalonde, could not be reached for comment.

o o o

**tipsyGypsy (TG) began pestering tiamiusTruncated (TT)!**

TG: master of the beat  
TG: beatmaster  
TG: masterbeater  
TG: whoever u are  
TT: Who is this?  
TG: lola  
TT: ...

**timaeusTruncated blocked tipsyGypsy!**

**timaeusTruncated unblocked tipsyGypsy!**

TG: okay stoop  
TT: The fuck?  
TT: Low blow, man.  
TT: Woman.  
TT: Whichever.  
TT: The point is, you've broken the sacred tenant of Pesterchum.  
TT: You've been blocked, and yet, here we are, still talking.  
TG: dont be a child  
TG: im trying to help you  
TT: What makes you think I want or need your help?  
TT: And how did you get this handle?  
TG: no lie  
TG: I googled 'rapping douchebags in texas'  
TG: and picked the one with the biggest vocabulry  
TG: lucjky guess  
TT: What the fuck do you want?  
TG: theres people after u  
TG: for the hydratech job  
TG: good job btw  
TG: its gonna take me months to fix everything  
TG: i can admit it  
TG: im a big girl  
TT: I'm waiting to find out why I'm even listening to you.  
TG: pople are AFTER u  
TG: like irl  
TG: you didnt get out clean  
TG: theres trails  
TT: There are alway trails.  
TG: i kno  
TG: but people are mad  
TG: they want you  
TG: bad  
TG: and i dont think its to hire u  
TG: u pissed off some big guys  
TT: I expected that.  
TT: I can handle myself, lola.  
TT: Thanks for the tip.  
TG: how olds ur litle boy?  
TG: 9? 10?  
TT: Don't you dare fucking threaten him.  
TT: You bring him into this, and you won't be able to run far enough, I swear to Christ.  
TG: im not  
TG: they might if they find out about him  
TG: you hurt their baby  
TG: they might hurt urs  
TG: thats why im wanring u  
TG: i have a little girl  
TG: bout the same age  
TG: if it was just u i wouldnt care  
TG: but theres ur kid  
TG: im a lot of things  
TG: hurting kids isnt one of them  
TG: wait  
TG: n/m u get what i mean  
TG: u still there?  
TT: Yeah, I'm still here.  
TG: take a breather  
TG: get off the net a while  
TG: habg up the hacking shoes  
TG: i can cut some of the trails but u gotta hide the rest  
TT: I get it.  
TT: If I find out that this is some ploy to defeat me once and for all, I'm flying to New York just to beat your ass.  
TG: u can try prettyboy  
TG: i beat that attackobot u made for aperture with my bare hands  
TG: u got my handle  
TG: anytime u wanna throw down, id fly u up here myself  
TT: Noted for future reference.  
TT: Goodbye, lola.  
TG: bye master of the beat

**tipsyGypsy ceased pestering timaeusTruncated!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I'll go back into this and color code the pesterlog, once I have a better internet connection.


End file.
